An Abundance of Embarrassments
by Rosa Cotton
Summary: Between winding up in the king of Mirkwood's dungeons, butting heads with said king, being visited by the elf's adorable son, and then escaping via the river in barrels… Let's just say Thorin's week could have gone a little bit better. DoS movieverse, bookverse, AU. No slash.


Disclaimer: _The Hobbit_, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J. R. R. Tolkien's estate, and Warner Brothers, New Line Cinema, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and WingNut Films.

Author's Note: Fill for a prompt on the hobbit-kink meme.

* * *

An Abundance of Embarrassments

A wave of the hand from the elven king causes the guards on either side of you to roughly drag you up from your knees. Instinctively you resist, trying to jerk away from their hard grip as they march you out the large doors of the throne room and into the hall.

"Uncle Thorin!" the childish, excited shout greets you when you and the elves round a second corner.

You choke, stumbling over your feet. All you see is a blur of gold and green and then a small body is pressing into you. It is awkward with your wrists shackled, your body stiffening in shock, but the creature simply snuggles closer. You think you hear a muffled, "Missed you!"

Both guards look distinctly uncomfortable; one pulls you backward while the other attempts to pry the little elf off of you.

"Please, Your Highness…"

The prince pouts at the guard before flashing you a bright smile. He looks exactly as you remember, blond hair growing longer, bright blue eyes sparkling, still adorable. "Hello, Uncle Thorin!"

Heat creeps up your neck, and you are overwhelmingly glad the king is not here to witness this mortifying moment. "I'm not your uncle," you say, the words feeling odd and out of place, the old amusement and teasing that previously accompanied them gone.

Legolas giggles and bounces on the balls of his feet. "Where are you going?"

One of the guards speaks up, "The king has ordered him to be placed in the dungeons, Your Highness." He bows respectfully to the prince before shoving you to move along.

From the corner of your eye you see Legolas's happy expression transform to distress. Silently you stare straight ahead and permit yourself to be led away.

* * *

In hindsight you shouldn't have been caught off guard by the elven king's summoning.

"What is your company doing in my kingdom?"

"That is none of your business."

"Everyone who passes through Mirkwood _is_ my business." A pause. "Why are you here?"

"That is none of your business."

"I beg to differ! What were you doing?"

"None of your business!"

* * *

"Stupid dark dungeons! Stupid uncomfortable dungeons! Stupid cold dungeons!" you grumble.

* * *

You still feel a bit out of sorts when you wake up to discover Prince Legolas grasping the bars of your cell and staring at you for the third time. Meeting your gaze, he gives you a dazzling smile and an excited wave. Retrieving two apples from his pocket, he tosses one to you. You eat the fruit in silence, studying the child quizzically.

Eventually you comment, "I do not believe your father would like your visiting me."

Legolas shrugs and smiles almost mischievously. "Maybe. But no one knows I come down here. I am quiet and sneaky," he says proudly before biting into his apple.

"Not sure if _I_ approve of your visits," you mumble under your breath. Even if his visits help you from going completely crazy, and to keep track of how many days you and the others have been here…

* * *

"Tell me of your company's quest and I will let you all go."

_Promises, promises, promises…so easily given and then broken,_ you think, annoyed.

"We got lost."

Thranduil arches one eyebrow. "You are a long ways from home to be lost."

You breathe out a long suffering sigh. "The House of Durin was never blessed with a great sense of direction," you admit grudgingly.

* * *

"Stupid dark dungeons! Stupid uncomfortable dungeons! Stupid damp dungeons! Stupid elven food! Stupid elven drink! Stupid _locked_ dungeons!" you repeat as you pace about your cell.

* * *

"Ada knows," Legolas declares when he appears, rolling two apples between the bars to you, and settles himself on the ground.

"Why are you here then?" you blurt when the prince remains quiet and contentedly munches on his own food, oblivious to your half-shocked, half-worried stare.

Legolas blinks at you. "I wanted to come," he explains cheerfully.

"B-b-but surely he disapproves of this, you being an elf and I a dwarf…," you trail off.

The little elf huffs and crosses his arms in front of his chest, face scrunching up in a frown. "_I_ like you! You are _my Uncle Thorin!_ And nothing you or Ada can say will change my mind!" he proclaims hotly, the tips of his ears turning bright red.

You sigh. It is sort of endearing, the prince's rebellious stubbornness. (Reminds you how decades ago Legolas once told you he wished he could be a dwarf.) You do not argue with him.

* * *

"Stubborn dwarf!"

"Daft elf!"

"You are prideful!"

"You are arrogant!"

"You and your love for treasure!"

"And you and only caring about yourself, abandoning allies and friends!"

* * *

"Do you hate me?" the child asks quietly, sadly.

Taken aback, you swiftly raise your head and encounter Legolas's big, deep blue eyes filling with tears, his bottom lip quivering visibly.

"No, of course I don't hate you!" you hasten to assure him as tears slid down his cheeks. You start to panic, never having done well with crying little ones. Reaching between the bars you awkwardly pat his head.

Legolas sniffles loudly. "C-can I call you uncle?"

"Yes, yes!" you agree. Anything to stop those tears!

"Do you hate Ada?" the lad asks.

You freeze for a moment. _Hate_ may not be quite the proper word. It has become increasingly hard to present nothing other than a furious façade during the confrontations with your former friend.

"No, Legolas. _Dislike_—"

The child suddenly beams through his tears. "Then there _is_ hope for Ada?" he cries.

"No! Wait—what?"

But Legolas is already off, racing down the corridor.

What just happened?

"Uh, Thorin?"

You will never admit the hobbit's whisper scares you half to death.

"Burglar!"

* * *

_I won't be able to get out of this river soon enough_, you muse, using your arms to steer your barrel towards the shore. You've never been overly fond of water, and after ridding down the river for several hours (while also busily escaping elves and fighting orcs) you are more than ready to be done with this.

"Can we do that again?" Fili asks as he bobbles by you, grinning widely.

You shake your head, shivering from exhaustion and being soaked to the bone. You sigh when your barrel comes to a stop along the river bank. _Finally, the end of a very bad week_, you think, relieved, and attempt to hoist yourself out of the barrel.

It is the sensation of eyes burning into the side of your head that causes you to freeze a second before Dwalin's astonished and exasperated cry of "By my beard…how?!" fills the air.

After silently counting to five, you look to discover Thranduil standing several feet away. He is without his crown and dressed in less magnificent clothes than you've seen before. Yet he still appears every inch the proud, haughty king that he is, his expression majestic and unimpressed, eyes cool. He doesn't have a hair out of place, nor any hint of breaking out into a sweat due to the chase. Perfection as always.

You don't know whether to bellow in rage or cry with frustration at being caught, you and your companions' escape all for naught. Instead, a high-pitched bark of laughter escapes you. After the week you've had, it is strangely fitting for him to end up here. No, you really should not be surprised.

Struggling to get out of the barrel, you scowl as your hair falls into your face. You push it back, grumbling under your breath as strands get tangled in your beard. Between dark locks you notice the elven king's lips twitch and his shoulders shake slightly. He is laughing at you!

With a growl and new burst of energy, you manage to scramble out of the blasted barrel. Barely sparing a glance to see if the others are working to get out of the rest of the barrels, you march over to the elf. You do not know if you feel more angry, frustrated, or defeated. Once toe to toe with the taller creature, you wordlessly stare up at him. When he lifts both eyebrows in silent inquiry, infuriatingly calm, you slap him.

It is the gasps of the older dwarves, questions from the lads and Bilbo, and surprise flitting across the elf's face which causes you to blink twice, stare at your hand, and belatedly realize what you have done. Darn old dwarven traditions! You just gave Thranduil the slap of brotherhood!

Usually bestowed during a long solemn ceremony, it is the strongest form of friendship which can exist between dwarves whom are not connected by blood. The two will view each other closer than a brother, standing beside each other in all things, plaiting the braid of each dwarf's family in one another's hair. Such a bond will last for generations.

It had been planned for such a bond to be formed between Thranduil and you, in order to bring the kingdoms of Mirkwood and Erebor closer. But before it could take place the relationship between the two realms became strained and eventually severed.

And now… You had not meant to do that at all, simply let out some of your pent-up frustration! You are tempted to hit your head against something. Desperately you search for words, "Well." Your head jerks back at the elf's slap.

"I accept and honor the brotherhood formed between you and I. Never shall there be a dearer, closer friend to me than Thorin Oakenshield," the elven king speaks in a clear, serious voice, and bows his head.

Stunned, you gape up at the pleased looking elf. _Word for word…_ "You hate me!" you exclaim.

Thranduil gazes at you as though you've lost your wits. "No, I do not! I've never hated you!" he protests. His expression growing sheepish, he adds, "I missed you."

_Oh. That does change things_, you realize, your ire lessening. Slowly you nod. "Arguing with you has been less enjoyable than I remember," you admit. He gives you a small genuine smile, and something in you eases. "So you do not intend to have us thrown back in your dungeons?" you ask with a faint frown.

"Oh, no!" The blond-haired king shakes his head. "No, I have no intention of stopping you and your companions!"

"Then what are you doing here?!"

"First," seemingly from nowhere the elf brings froth an apple. "'For Uncle Thorin.' Legolas was very insistent you have your apple for the day. And he wants you to be very careful, because he will be most upset if you miss his birthday."

You feel your face flush hotly, aware of the various snickers and aw-ings behind your back. Grunting, you accept the offering. "Aye, I shall be careful. And…I would be honored to come for his birthday," you say with a nod.

"And second," Thranduil continues, his blue eyes filling with mirth as they inspect you from head to toe (you resist the urge to fidget, aware you appear like a drowned rat). "I have not seen you in such a state in over a hundred-fifty years." He grins.

You groan loudly. Yes, your first visit to Mirkwood at the tender age of ten. You were so taken with everything you saw as you and the others were being led to meet the elven king that you fell headfirst into a pool and were saved by Thranduil himself. A mortifying and frightening experience as you couldn't swim then. But the king had been kind and gentle over the whole incident.

"You were quite adorable, so small and soaking wet," the elf interrupts your thoughts. He grins wider when you glare at him. "And you still are now."

"Silly elf!" you mutter, trying not to smile.

A chuckle sounds above you, and you do not fight the arms which pulls you into an embrace.

THE END


End file.
